In the season of briefer days and deeper darkness,
as catkins rattle their emptiness
and winds and fog swirl past, swiping
damp cold across the world,
beaten like olives
down to our essence
we reach into our heart-pockets
grasp the or ha’ganuz
and rise.
Spreading form and meaning into the darkness,
we call dormant brightness into being:
lighting a candle every night,
creating joyous acts of resistance,
with every waxen rod that blooms into flame
